


Bis Venenatus

by dudugodudugo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Secret Snarry Swap 2019, Serial Killers, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21693730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dudugodudugo/pseuds/dudugodudugo
Summary: Harry Potter follows Severus Snape to Canada, a wild country full of serial killers.  He expects to have a few beers and leave. This is not the case.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 24
Kudos: 72
Collections: Secret Snarry Swap19





	Bis Venenatus

**Author's Note:**

> I have been informed that this fic may be considered “crack.” I do not agree. This is the panicked, directionless writing that all NaNo participants suffer. As always, readability is thanks to williamsnickers, my ever loyal femme fatale. Thanks also to the S3 mods who orchestrated this fest and, more importantly, extended my deadline.
> 
> Prompt No. 3 from ladyofsilverdawn: Harry needs to get away, so he decides to move to one of the least densely populated countries in the world: Canada. Out in the wilderness, he comes to the aid of the last person he ever thought he’d see again.

**I**

* * *

The northern sunset washed the sky a dusty pink. Harry leaned against the Muggle motorcar and watched as the edges of the horizon slowly turned a sinister blue, a sign of the approaching night hours. He remembered that he still hadn’t found lodging, or whatever it was called here.

Several Muggles passed by, looking his age but wearing the kind of crap from old mags. On a boombox, they were blasting a song he recognised from Petunia’s glory days. He poured the rest of his beer out on the pavement.

Perhaps there was a lodge – motel, whatever – down the road. Already Harry missed the Leaky Cauldron for its warm meals and easy hospitality. Here, loud patrons and North American IPAs removed all civility. Canada.

He was opening the car door when a ruckus broke out behind him. A familiar man stumbled out, pushing past the crowd of youth. He didn’t look in a good way, Harry saw, watching as the man paused, shaken.

“You all right?” Harry called out.

The black, unamused eyes of Severus Snape looked back at him.

“Snape?” Harry pushed the car door shut and came around. “I said, you all right?”

Like a dying man’s, spider hands grabbed him and held on. “Potter?” Surprise washed over Snape’s features. “You…”

“Alright there?”

Snape spotted the keys in Harry’s hand, then glanced at the car. “Is that abomination yours?”

Harry looked at the blue two-door with an uncharitable frown. “Well,” he started, “I wouldn’t say it’s mine, exactly…”

“Be quiet.” Snape leaned to the side and retched. Unimpressed, Harry looked down and wiped his snow boot against the parking block.

“We need to leave,” said Snape, grabbing at Potter’s car keys. Harry could smell the alcohol on his breath. Snape’s hand snaked out again, catching air. “Immediately.”

“If anyone’s driving, it’s me,” Harry said firmly, pushing Snape back. The man was so sloshed, he could barely stand straight.

The sun was falling quickly, a thin layer of gold in the trees. Harry heaved a sigh. “Fine. I’ll help you sober up, is all. Just…” His breath was really too much. “Don’t be sick in my car.”

Harry helped Snape to the passenger side, opposite where it should be. Canada was half-wrong about everything. “It’s a loaner,” he grumbled as he buckled Snape in, “and you know, they ask for a cleaning deposit…”

There had to be lodging on the main street, even in a small town like this. Harry looked around, already lost. From the street, a pair of blinding headlights hit his glasses wrong and he took them off, scrubbing his face. He wasn’t all that sober himself.

“What you want, sugar?” a bird near the bar’s entrance called out.

Harry glanced at Severus, buckled up in the car with his forehead against the glass, and walked up to the woman. She told him directions to the nearest inn, and he thanked her. Then she asked him a question.

“No,” Harry said, scratching his head. “He’s not my father.”

“Like that, then?” The woman nodded suggestively as she lit a cigarette. Harry smiled and ran a hand through his hair.

* * *

_Six months ago, Marla Otrovka, a sexual predator spotted in the Quebec City area, was released from a No-Mag prison. She is considered dangerous._

* * *

The room key tag read ‘Motel Giffard, Quebec City,’ which was a drab motel of cabins facing a grey parking lot. Harry only cared that the actual key fit into the lock.

It was dark now, so he pushed open the door and reached for the light switch – there. One bed, just as check-in had warned. Harry took a deep breath and went to fetch Snape.

Snape, for all his talk, went pale as he stepped out of the car. He grabbed Harry’s jacket to steady himself, beads of sweat visible on his forehead.

“Come on, then,” Harry said, pulling him into the room. Snape groaned.

“You drive like a maniac,” he complained.

Harry dropped him onto the bed. “Got you here, didn’t I,” he shot back. “You need a bowl or anything? Bathroom’s through there, but if you can’t make it…”

Snape’s expression could have frozen water. “I meant,” Harry quickly added, “in case you sick up. Merlin, Snape.” He looked around and grabbed the empty ice bucket. “Here. Just… hold onto it, will you.”

Then he collapsed in a chair and closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids he heard the TV briefly turn on, then back off. Wait, Snape knew how to work a telly?

“Why are you in Canada?” Harry demanded, opening his eyes. “Doesn’t seem like your usual haunt.”

“And where is my usual haunt, Mr Potter?” Snape asked dryly, fiddling with the contents of the bedside drawer.

Harry tried to level with him. “I saw you with a lady earlier,” he started again. “You know, in the bar.”

“Marla Otrovka,” Snape supplied, his lip twisting with distaste. “And she is hardly a lady.”

“You’ve been going out for a while?” Harry frowned.

“She was trying to _take me out_ tonight,” Snape corrected, sounding displeased. He lay back on the bed and groaned in pain, his shirt riding up.

Harry smiled. For a moment, he almost considered staying the night… to make sure Snape was alright, is all. “Not a good date, then?”

There was a knock at the door. Annoyed, Harry stood and opened it.

The check-in lad shoved a couple of towels at him. “Forgot these,” he said in a local accent. Harry blinked and took them. “Are you a couple, then?” the man asked, peering inside. “Usually people go to the love hotel down the street… If you want privacy, I can stand guard –”

Harry handed the towels back. “We’re fine,” he said. His wand slid discreetly into his hand, and he silently cast a charm. “You’d best _leave us be_.”

Glassy-eyed, the man turned away and Harry shut the door.

Snape towered behind him. How he had moved so quickly, Harry hadn’t an idea.

“Imperius?” the man underlined in a low tone, grabbing Harry’s wand arm. “On a Muggle?”

Harry pointed his wand to Snape’s chest. “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?” he asked. “I persuaded him to leave us be, is all. Sit before you fall down.”

Black eyes pressed into his mind, but Harry stood his ground. “You joined the Aurors after the Final Battle,” Snape said, as if explaining something to himself.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Harry retorted.

Snape pursed his lips. They were thin, Harry noticed, and he wondered what they felt like. “You’re more of a soldier than you let on.”

They were very close now. Harry remembered that Snape had been drinking, and closed his eyes, tilting his head up.

There was a derisive chuckle. Then the bed creaked as Snape folded himself onto it, a black mess of robes and sallow, pointed cheekbones. Within minutes he had fallen into a disturbed sleep, facing away from Harry. Still, the room was stuffy with discontent.

He grabbed his coat.

Outside, in the parking lot, the air was much clearer. Harry walked to the nearest coin machine, directly outside the check-in office. He had no Canadian money, so he transfigured a few pebbles and tried them. A Coke dropped, and he pulled the tab.

In Canada, in a rented room, with Snape? It was a disaster in the making.

Nearby, there was a squeal of tires. Harry huffed and started back for the motel room. Snape might be incapacitated now, but he would be alright in the morning. Maybe then…

Harry finished the fizzy and headed back in.

* * *

“Snape?” Harry turned the key and opened the door, but there was no telltale rustling. He frowned and grappled for the bedside lamp. “Snape, wake up.”

The light revealed an empty bed, and a cold feeling slipped into Harry’s stomach as he stared at the flowered, crumpled duvet. It was barely warm now.

“Snape. Snape?”

The bathroom was similarly empty. Harry went to the car, then walked around the parking lot. In Snape’s current state, he couldn’t get far. Not that he wouldn’t try all the same.

Next, Harry banged on the bell of check-in, and that horrible clerk appeared. His eyes widened. “Yes?”

“My…” Harry blushed and tried again. “The man who was with me. He just left. Do you know anything about that?”

“His wife came to fetch him,” he informed Harry, looking him up and down.

“We weren’t–” Harry started, then thought better of it. He told himself that Snape could be in danger. It wasn’t good for him to move around right now. “He forgot something in my car. Did they say where they were going?”

“She was angry,” the lad admitted, “and they left in a hurry.”

“He was with her earlier tonight,” Harry reasoned aloud. “But he didn’t want to stay. I didn’t ask why.”

“Couples fight,” the man shrugged. “But straights don’t turn gay. Trust me, don’t waste yourself on them.”

Harry left and walked back to the room, but he didn’t feel easy about it. He sat down in the spot Snape had vacated. Six years, and one drunken conversation? It was dissatisfying, but maybe Snape wanted it this way.

Maybe he should forget this night happened.

The hotel lamp cast long shadows in the quiet, and Harry moved for the telly’s remote. Except he couldn’t find it on the bedside table where Snape had left it.

He ripped back the duvet and sifted through the bedside drawer pamphlets until he eventually found it half-kicked under the bed. An ashtray had also been knocked over. Snape really had left in a hurry.

He looked around some more, and discovered Snape’s outer robes still draped over a chair. Hesitantly, Harry picked up the heavy fabric. Magical enchantments made it heavier than it looked, and he knew with certainty Snape had not meant to forget it.

That’s it. He would have to return it.

* * *

Early the next morning, a conventional fellow in a brown bowler hat and a mustard coat unlocked the door of his curiosity shop. Harry waited in his car only until the man turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN, then burst in.

“Brinley Stuart?” Harry demanded. The man, who had looked older outside, turned around. His hair was slick and peppered, his back ridiculously straight. With piercing eyes, he looked Harry over.

“Mr Potter,” he greeted plainly, eyeing the scar. “Yes, I know who you are. What brings you to my humble establishment?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. The shop was neat, clean of dust, and strangely arranged. He surveyed the merchandise.

“Fine merchandise you have here,” Harry finally said. “Would you say the same about your employees?”

“I only have one employee, Mr Potter.” Stuart stood proudly behind the register. “And Severus Snape came highly recommended by your alma mater.”

“He went missing last night.”

“Are you sure? He attended work yesterday.” The man raised an eyebrow.

“I was with him when he went missing,” Harry went on. “He was at a bar with his wife in the evening. The Rusty Spoon, do you know it?”

Stuart was shaking his head. “I know of it, but you must be mistaken. Severus is not married.”

“Because he doesn’t wear a ring?”

“Because he’s not married,” Stuart stressed. “We have worked together for some time, and I entertain the notion that we are more familiar than colleagues.”

Harry sighed and tried again. “The Rusty Spoon?”

“A mediocre establishment. I have met the owner at town hall meetings, and I am…” Stuart touched a portrait, straightening it. “Less than impressed.”

“Right.” Harry scratched his head. Sometimes, his Auror training was all that he could lean on. “I’ll need Snape’s time card and home address. Please.”

* * *

_Marla Otrovka, released from prison earlier this year, had no comment on the death of her partner and husband, Saul Bernardo. Bernardo died in custody within hours of his arrest, twelve years ago._

* * *

A nondescript house with a garden hedge and peeling paint waited for Harry. He had left his car at the curiosity shop and walked, 10 minutes down the main road, then turned right.

Any house could have been Snape’s. The only reason he knew the one was the number painted on the side of the mailbox. Awkwardly, Harry looked around before knocking on the door.

There was no answer, of course. The curtains, opaque green, were drawn. Harry circled to the garden, noting the manicured grass. He knew potions masters were botanists, but yard maintenance was a strange consequence. Then again, Snape had always been fussy.

He unlocked the garden door with a quick spell, and nearly impaled himself on the wards.

A lethal curse cast a strange sheen on the kitchen tiles, and Harry hurriedly stepped back. He took a calming breath then and reminded himself that this was the home of a Death Eater, like Malfoy and Goyle and all the rest.

Another careful look around and Harry noticed the trip wire next to his toe, and a Rune scratched into the door jamb that made his blood run cold. He licked his lips. He had been trained for this.

There were other things. No dirty dishes in the sink. A teapot was the only item out of the cupboard – a pink, faded flower on its side. There was a kitchen rack lined with cauldrons, none of them large enough for commercial brewing.

The absences were just as notable. There were no jars full of eyeballs, nor Slytherin banners, save those dark curtains… it wasn’t the life Harry had imagined Snape leading.

By the door, he found a worn pair of Dragonhide boots, doubtless the same used at Hogwarts. A pair of slippers was beside them, in Snape’s size. There were no other shoes, not even his wife’s.

Harry closed the door and it charmed itself locked with a sick crunch.

* * *

At the petrol station nearby, Harry went inside and bought several maps. He doubted Snape could be traced by magical means, but perhaps this Marla… Otrovka could be. He would spread them out on the bed at Hotel Giffard and cast a tracing spell.

“Excuse me!”

The doorbell rang and an older woman marched in. She was dressed smartly, a neat sweater blending with her hair.

“You! Yes, you!” she called, pointing an accusing finger at Harry. She marched down the aisle of engine oil. “Stop right there. Henry! This man is a thief!”

The clerk remained neutral, and Harry silently thanked him for that. He took a deep breath and gathered his maps. “Sorry, ma’am, you must have me mistaken. Now, excuse me.”

He started for the register, but the pestiferous woman stopped him with a hand. “I’m sure I don’t,” she announced, talking over a thick black and red scarf. “You were just up the street, I saw –”

“Come off, Carole,” the clerk said with a huff. “It’s no crime to walk up a street, even if you are…” he looked pointedly at Harry’s colorful hat. “Ultras Montréal.”

“Sorry?” Harry looked around. “I’m not from Montreal, I’m –”

“A thief is what you are,” Carole said coldly. “Peeking around the residence of a fine man like Severus, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“You know Severus?” Harry lost interest in purchasing the maps. “I’ve been looking for him.”

Carole raised her eyebrow. “And who are you to him?” she demanded.

At this, Harry glanced at Henry. “She roots for Toronto FC. Me as well,” the clerk added, as if all were explained.

Harry turned back. “Can you tell me about Severus Snape or not?”

Carole held her head high, blocking the aisle. “If you know him, what is there left to say?”

Perhaps Canadians were just unhinged. In his arms, Harry gathered the lot of maps and headed for the counter. “I’m not some common criminal,” he argued as he passed Carole. “I’m looking for a friend. And good day to you, ma’am.”

“You won’t find him that way,” she said, grating. “Maps are for destinations, not missing persons. I’ve already notified the police.”

He was pulling out foreign bills from his wallet as Carole joined him at the counter. The clerk sorted the change.

For now, Carole was his source of information. Harry regarded her. “When did you call?”

“This morning,” snipped Carole. “We have a respectable, Sunday evening arrangement, Severus and I. It is unlike him to waive it. Very unlike him.”

“The footy game,” the clerk supplied.

He could not imagine Severus Snape watching a footy game. Well, he also never imagined him to be married. In this case, Harry kept his mouth shut. He listened to the rest of Carole’s account, then departed for the hotel.

* * *

The shady motel, so aptly named Hotel Giffard, had been empty when he left this morning. Now, Harry parked his automobile next to an old Chevrolet. He stared at it, the only addition to the stark parking lot, and dug the room key out of his pocket.

His rented room, he found, was also not empty.

“Hello there,” a voice coaxed as he opened the door. On the bed, a naked man lounged, bedsheet artfully draped across his groin.

Harry stopped dead. Slowly, the hotel door clicked shut.

“Don’t be alarmed,” the man went on. Harry recognised him as the hotel’s check-in clerk. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Under his coat, Harry wrapped his hand around his wand. “What in fuck’s sake are you doing?” he asked, sounding every bit the Auror.

The man practically purred in response. “Your man ran off,” he said pleasantly.

Where he gained this confidence, Harry did not know. He stared at the hotel clerk.

“Ran home to his wife, left you unsatisfied. Don’t worry. I work _hard_ for my five star reviews.”

Under different circumstances, Harry might have considered it. Now, the maps weighed in his hand. “No, thank you.” Harry rubbed his forehead. “Maybe another time.”

He pulled open the door.

“You’re throwing me out?” the man asked, sitting up on his knees. He wasn’t much to look at, but out of mild curiosity Harry looked. The bedsheets pooled interestingly.

“Oh, so we’re already playing. You like that cop act. You want me to beg, don’t you?” he fell off the bed and threw himself at Harry’s feet. “You want to arrest me. Please, daddy,” he started.

Harry dropped the bag of maps and grabbed the man’s upper arm. “Thanks, not now,” he said, and physically pulled the man out of the room.

“Rougher,” the man smiled as he stood, starkers, on the curb. Harry dropped the bedsheet on the ground and closed the door. Later, he would look for a different hotel.

Harry picked up the maps and spread them out.

* * *

Tracing charms were not as simple as he had hoped. Harry jabbed his wand at the paper and silently wished for the simplicity of the Marauder’s Map.

The Muggle maps of Canada outlined a river and wilderness, with some spots of civilisation here and there. He held the locating crystal in his left hand as Hermione had instructed; in the right hand, his wand.

Again, he cast the locator spell. Again, the crystal refused to touch the paper.

“Not that one, then?” he grumbled, and shuffled through the maps. With the whole expanse of Canada spread out on the bed, he swung the crystal back and forth. It dropped and rolled lazily in the direction of Quebec.

He called Hermione.

“The charms on the crystal might be too old,” she offered over the phone, the hum of the Ministry in the background. “Or it might be the non-magical map. Try refreshing the charms or, if that doesn’t work, I might be able to send you another crystal. Listen, I’ve got to go.”

“Right, thanks. Yeah, you’d better be off.” Harry hung up and stared at the crystal.

It took him the better part of the afternoon, and several wayward charms, until the crystal was fully functioning. The lights from the window were dim when Harry finally – triumphantly – circled a spot in the Quebec wilderness. The thick black marker lines gleamed on the paper.

Then, without a thought, he memorised the coordinates and Apparated.

* * *

Auror training told him to Apparate a half kilometre away, and so Harry found himself ankle deep in mud. He sighed and looked around, his wand drawn.

It was the woods. The deep woods. There was no path, so Harry fought through the branches and fallen trees until a clearing opened, a lone pool of light at some distance.

He stepped onto a gravel road. Ahead, a dilapidated farmhouse waited, and a barn beside it. He could see an oil lamp, burning softly at the barn entrance. It was the only sign of life, and Harry started towards it.

* * *

**II**

* * *

_… receiving reports of a snowstorm blowing in from the northeast. We advise all Quebec residents to move indoors immediately._

* * *

“The drugs should be taking effect now,” Marla said with some satisfaction, checking her wristwatch. “I wasn’t light with your dosage.”

Severus stumbled to his feet, the motel room swaying with him. “Get out,” he hissed. She stepped forward and he reeled back, his hand catching on the ashtray and landline.

Marla Otrovka’s face had been painted on every newspaper, both Muggle and magical, and bandied on the wireless for months. Severus had thought nothing of it. Now, sweating, he grabbed his wand.

Her warm hands pulled him forward and propelled him to the door. “You already tried that in the bar. That little stick can do nothing for you,” she told him, and deftly took it from his hand.

“A horse tranquiliser?” he asked, knowing it was true. He saw the parking lot under his feet and heard the click of a car door. A moment later, the motorcar’s engine turned over. The rest was inconsequential, and he closed his eyes.

* * *

He awoke again in a barn, old hay underneath him, one hand chained to a feeding rail. The night’s wind blew strong from outside, chilling him, as Marla handed over a loaf of bread.

“Too strong a dosage,” she murmured, a glint in her eye. “This should help wake you up.”

“You’re out of practice,” Severus noted dryly, taking the bread in his free hand. As her face soured, he quietly tested the reliability of the cuffs. They held his left hand in a vice grip. Bloody Muggle devices.

“You’re spirited; that’s good. Without Saul, I’ve missed the violence of it.” Marla smiled at him, drawing an object from her pocket. It was his wand.

Severus silently called it to him, but it didn’t move from her hand. He could only stare as her hands wrapped around it, rolling it, then – with a quick motion – snapping it clean in half. The two pieces fell on the ground.

“Cathartic, isn’t it?” Marla asked. “To say goodbye to our old crutches. Now you must find your power.”

Severus balled his hands into fists. The barn became frigid by degrees, and she left him alone.

* * *

Later that night, a Lumos hesitantly lit the darkness Snape sat in.

“Oi, Snape,” a voice called. “Is that you?” Footsteps. “Hey. You look like absolute shite.”

Snape half-heartedly pulled on the handcuffs, grunting in acknowledgment.

“Hey.” A boot nudged him. “Are you alright?”

“Never touch me with that disgusting shoe again,” Snape grumbled, using his free hand to slap the offending thing away. “And undo these cuffs.”

“What? Oh, right.” A simple _Alohomora_ and the metal fell away.

Snape rubbed his wrist as Harry looked around. Finally, the idiot cast a Notice-Me-Not and a stronger Lumos. “Not the warmest here, is it,” the boy said, zipping his jacket.

“Marla did not invite me indoors, no,” he explained, gathering himself. The room slid in and out of focus, so he leaned against a pillar and fumbled for a Pepperup. He usually kept one on his person.

There was a concerned look on Potter’s face, one which Snape hadn’t seen before. “Your wife doesn’t let you inside?” he asked. “That’s no way to start a proper marriage.”

“Nor is drugging one with horse tranquilisers,” added Severus, unamused by adolescent humour. He hobbled to a feeding trough, which he leaned against, the cold metal on his backside helping him stay alert. His cloak – he couldn’t remember where he had left it – was then laid carefully across his shoulders. He coughed, wheezing. “Water.”

A glass materialised, and Potter held it up to his lips. It was lukewarm, the sign of shoddy transfiguration work. Potter had never paid enough attention in classes. Severus gulped it anyway.

“Wait, where’s your wand?” Potter asked, looking between the handcuffs and the water. “You can conjure water yourself.”

Severus’ eyes darkened, but he gave nothing away. “I am not going to cast while intoxicated,” he lied airily, lifting one eyebrow. “Tell me you are more responsible than you sound.”

As Potter mulled that over, Severus gently felt in his pocket for his wand. The two pieces weighed , a splintered line scoring them. He was no stranger to broken wands, but the Dark Lord had been dead a good time. He had hoped…

“Alright there? Look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” commented Potter.

There was a ringing in his ears, as if he had let the telephone go. Severus watched with morbid detachment as a smooth hand came up and gripped his shoulder, shaking him. “Stop it,” he snapped. His body felt like lead.

“I reckon you had too much to drink,” Potter murmured to himself. “But that’s no reason for your wife to leave you out here. Won’t she invite us in?”

Nothing intelligent could come out of the boy’s mouth. “Not if she’s a psychopath,” Severus replied. He leaned over to cough, and the world tilted again.

“I wouldn’t go that far, darling,” a femme fatale voice teased. He could almost see Marla, leaning on the barn door in a cocktail dress. A hallucination. Still, he wanted to hex her.

“Snape, shit,” a man said, then Severus hit the ground with a smack.

* * *

They were walking along the road before Severus knew where they were. His body had apparently found enough strength to walk. When he had begun this particular exercise… well, that question was best left alone. Potter, ever present now, was next to him, supporting his weight.

And was he humming? Severus scowled.

“Potter,” he interrupted, a tree branch almost hitting him in the face.

“You’re – cognizant?” Potter nearly dropped him in surprise, but Severus’ hand tightened into a death grip around his shoulders.

“Yes, yes; that isn’t important now. Where are we?”

Potter adjusted his arm. “Yeah, I’d say we’re about two kilometres from Quebec now,” he smiled proudly. “There was a snowstorm, so I haven’t had phone reception. Following the road has been difficult as well, but we’ve managed. Need another warming charm? I reckon I’m quite good at them by now–“

“Two kilometres from Quebec?” he interrupted, looking at the sky. “Is that why we’re heading _north_ , you dunderhead?”

Potter stopped. “Come again?”

“Last night, we were just northwest of Quebec City,” he reasoned slowly. “An hour’s walk south would have us back at Hotel Giffard. Unless…” Severus’ voice darkened as he pointed at the sun, moving from east to west. “We didn’t go south.”

“Er –”

He thwacked Potter’s head for good measure. “Idiot! How long have we been going for?”

Potter looked at him, as hatefully as in his school days. “Hours,” he admitted.

Severus scoffed. “Look, this wouldn’t have been a problem at all if you could Apparate! Here I am, fielding recreational drinking, a snowstorm, your bloody _wife_ , and how do you…”

Potter heaved a deep breath, which Severus felt through the fabric of their coats. He tried to forget how close their bodies were now.

Questions flew into his mouth. “Where is that woman?” Severus demanded.

“You mean Marla? Well, I was trying to find her,” Harry started. Severus wanted to shake the information from him. “Checked the house. It was snowing in the parlour, some problems with the roofing. I don’t think anyone lives at that farmhouse, Snape.”

“Of course not,” he said impatiently. She had taken him to a condemned farmhouse to have her way, and left before the snowstorm hit. His thoughts turned to the two pieces of wood in his pocket. Otrovka was a Muggle, but not one to be trifled with. “Stay away from her. I don’t want to see you anywhere near her.”

“Whatever,” Potter replied, sounding flat. He tore himself away from Severus, leaving him to stumble and sway. “I’ll be sure not to ruin your wonderful life here. How about that? And you know what, Snape.” The boy shook a finger at him. “Fuck you, that’s what.”

With a patience he didn’t have, Severus found his legs and straightened. The boy was being intolerable. He would have much preferred to sit down, perhaps in bed, with a vulturesque Poppy. Snow crunched in the cold silence.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Can’t have the Boy Who Lived traipsing around your perfect Canadian life, can you?” ranted Potter, waving his arms like a baboon. “You’ve got your perfect job, your wife, nice house, a couple of friends to kick it on the weekend…”

Severus stood, unmoved, in the cold. “Are you quite finished?”

The boy said nothing else. “Rest assured, Potter, you have made a complete fool of yourself. Instead of Apparating for help, as any sensible wizard would, you have wasted precious hours in the apprehension of a serial killer; dragged an impaired old man through hours of –”

“Oh, shut your mush!” A snowball whizzed past Severus’ head. “I never asked for this shite. You’re the one that came running up to my car, remember?”

The boy turned and marched down the road. Just for good measure, Severus threw a snowball at his retreating back. If his wand weren’t broken, he would have surely hexed him. “You dunderhead! That’s the wrong direction!”

Then Severus dusted the snow off his cloak and politely made for the south, towards Quebec City.

* * *

A good deal of time later, and with no human contact aside from a motor car sliding down the road like a drunkard, Severus found himself knee-deep in a field of white, frozen water. He was very unhappy.

After the car, and fearing for his life, Severus had climbed off the main road and took a shortcut through the wilderness. Admittedly, the “shortcut” saved no time and proved to be worse conditions than the slush of the motorway. Each step was a kick and then sinking. His thighs were chilled and he hugged the cloak tighter about himself.

Up ahead, he saw a thin trench of snowless gravel and veered towards it, like a ship spying a lighthouse. After a minute’s walk he understood it was a cabin, half-buried in a clearing, a porch, and its overhang. He had already climbed the steps before he decided to knock.

There was no answer. The door was of course locked, but he found a key hidden in the mailbox. The door swung wide, revealing a barren one-room setup with a wood stove. There was a cauldron resting on it.

An unimpressive amount of firewood lay nearby, the remains of an earlier visit. Everything was cold.

His face, numb from hours in the cold without warming charms, twisted into a small smile.

* * *

The fire was burning fine, melting snow in the cauldron, when the knock came. It was a bold knock, unsettling in its demand. Severus’ eyes flitted to the door.

“I know you’re in there!” a man shouted.

He entertained the thought of ignoring it. The curtains were drawn, and no one knew where he was. Perhaps it was the owner, but the voice was too familiar. Severus set his jaw and looked away.

“For God’s sake…” More pounding. “Open the bloody door!”

Severus cracked it open to glare at the Potter boy. “Go away,” he started to hiss. In spite of him, Potter saw his chance and wedged his way inside. The door slammed shut behind him.

“It’s fucking freezing out there,” he began, shaking out of his coat and hat. Severus looked at him unkindly, and Potter glanced down at his red and gold hat. “Oh, this? I transfigured it from a branch. Came out a little wonky. Like it? Anyway,” he bent over to untie his boots, “you wouldn’t believe how bad it’s got again. No snowfall in hours, now this!”

Severus peeked out the window. It was atrocious, as Potter said.

“I was following your footprints,” Potter went on. “Merlin, Snape, you’ve got long legs. How tall are you? No, forget I asked. This is a nice setup. Anyone else here?”

“No. And I expect you won’t be long, either,” grumbled Severus. He retreated to the fire and warmed himself.

Potter frowned. “Don’t be like that. I came all this way to find you.”

Severus stared resolutely at the melting snow, miffed that his retreat had been invaded. The room fell into an uncomfortable silence.

“Why are you wearing that?” Potter tried again. He picked up Severus’ sweater from where it was hanging. “You could have cast a drying spell.”

“No, I could not have. And I will ask you to keep your opinions to yourself.” He sat down in a chair, the large flannel crumpling around his thin frame. “You’re blocking the heat, boy, move away.”

Potter stepped to the side, revealing the wood stove’s window of fire. Severus nodded and picked up the book he’d been reading.

The sounds of cupboards opening and the clink of ceramic mugs alerted Severus to Potter’s next brilliant idea. He could smell the tea steeping. After a while, Potter came to sit down. His clothes were dry, hair fluffy from the spell.

“Here’s your tea,” he said, and slid a steaming mug across the side table. Severus said nothing, his book suddenly very interesting. “Ahem. Why couldn’t you cast a drying spell? Or are you pants at domestic charms? Seems a good reason to marry.”

Enough was enough. Severus slapped his book shut and examined the boy, curled on the chair. “I am not married, and certainly not to Marla Otrovka. You’ve had your laugh, and I’d appreciate a return to civility.”

“Wait, you’re not married?”

At that point, Severus nearly lost it. Potter quickly backtracked. “Me neither. Had that go with Ginny, but…” He chewed his lip. “She’s great and all. Only, I’ve got my eye on someone else and –”

Severus watched him talk, distinctly unsettled. Potter looked up. “Don’t look at me like that. Seriously, it’s unnerving.”

They sipped their tea as the windows rattled.

“I’ve got to use the loo.” Potter stood and looked around the one-room cabin. “Where is it?”

One pointed finger at the back door. “Where do you think?” asked Severus dryly. He had visited the outhouse earlier, a wooden stall with a hole. It sat near the treeline.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

Severus smirked. “Or use magic,” he offered, raising an eyebrow.

With a shrug, Potter reached for his coat. “That’s alright,” he said cheerily. “Playing Muggle with you is fun, I’m quite liking it. Be back.”

Potter returned a few minutes later, bringing the cold with him.. His dried clothes were wet, and instead of drying them again, he began unbuttoning his shirt. “Don’t mind, do you?” he asked, then his chest was bare.

Severus tried not to look, so he picked up his book. The letters swam in front of his eyes.

Potter, flushed, sat back down in his pants and pulled the one tattered blanket around himself. Perhaps the boy was a mite desperate, Severus reasoned, and was reminded of the clerk from that horrible motel. His own face remained impassive.

“I’m cold,” came a bold voice. Severus threw his own blanket at him.

“Bollocks.” Lines of irritation crinkled Potter’s mouth, which Severus tried very hard not to study. Damn Gryffindor tactlessness. “I came to Canada to see you. I wanted to talk to you.”

Severus’ lips thinned. “About what, pray tell,” he grumbled.

Instead of answering, Potter reached for his cooling tea.

* * *

_Unusual snow storms sweep across Canada tonight. In Quebec province, snowfall has reached 61 cm, leaving some people stranded. On the up side, crime has also been “snowed under.” We will be hearing about that from the chief of police, later tonight, so stay tuned._

* * *

“Snape, be reasonable,” he scolded as Severus tucked the blanket to his chin. “There’s only one bed, and no couch.”

“Conjure one,” he said, gripping the ragged wool like a body shield. “Well?”

Potter set his jaw. “You’re a git, you know that,” he complained. It changed nothing and Severus looked at him, unmoved.

He watched as the boy sulked to the hearth, where he pooled transfigured blankets on the ground and rolled restlessly like a child. Severus watched, but didn’t criticise. Frankly, there was less to criticise than he’d have liked.

After a while, the air stilled and he closed his eyes.

It was dawn when Severus woke, the once warm room now cold as the hour he’d arrived. He shuffled to the stove where the embers floated behind the glass, orange and weak.

Potter huddled on the ground, shivering. It was pathetic. He roughly covered Potter’s bare shoulder then pushed more logs inside the furnace.

Back in bed, Severus felt the blankets lift and a weight drop behind him. A pair of cold feet slipped next to his. “Sorry, sorry,” Potter mumbled, the words slurred. A strong arm wrapped around his torso as a man curled against his backside. Severus shivered now as strange fingers brushed his stomach through the flannel nightgown.

“Keep your damned feet off me,” Severus rasped after a moment’s shuffling. Potter’s breath blew gently on his shoulder, a soft hum, then sleep overcame them both.

* * *

There was canned soup in the cupboard, which Severus heated in the cauldron. Potter was looking out the window. Beyond that, a desolate white landscape greeted them. None of their footprints were visible anymore, covered by more snow overnight.

“November,” grumbled Potter.

“Be lucky we are inside,” Severus replied. He ladled the soup and sat down, not waiting for the boy to hobble over.

A hand touched Severus’ hair, light as it examined the curled ends. Then Potter sat down and, like a barbarian, slurped soup into his gaping mouth. “Not bad,” he offered. “Hits the spot, doesn’t it.”

Severus ignored him and focused on eating.

“Let’s stay,” Potter said suddenly. “At least until the snow melts.”

That might well be months. “No. I’m a busy man, Potter.”

The boy changed tactics. “I’ll stay at your house. It’s a nice one, plenty of room for two. I’ll help at the curiosity shop, and –”

Severus snorted in surprise. “Suffer through fútbol on Sundays?” At Potter’s look he added, “My neighbor insists. Never mind that, Potter. We are in an unusual circumstance, but soon will return to our respective lives. Let’s not play make believe now.”

Potter diverted his eyes and ate.

Later, Severus cleaned the cauldron in the snow. Cold wind bit into his face and hands, and he regretted that he didn’t have his wand. This unscheduled camping trip was becoming arduous. A quick survey of the landscape told him it would have to continue a bit longer.

As Severus opened the front door, warm air teased him and strong arms pulled him in. “There you are,” Potter said. Eager hands pulled Snape’s cloak off, fumbling for his shirt. “You must be cold.”

“Get off,” Severus said, but he let the hands unbutton him. His trousers fell open, and he impatiently pulled his sweater off before Potter could. Young hands reached for his underwear, but Severus pushed back. “Get on the bed.”

“No.” Harry licked his lips. “I don’t…” He blushed.

“Then why did you come here?” Severus barked, startling both of them. “A waste of time. Go back to Britain, you belong there.”

“I wanted to see you.” Potter held himself stubbornly, but Severus could see the fleshy head that poked out of his red boxers. He was undignified, a brat, come to bother an old professor. Severus kicked off his boots.

“You don’t know what you want,” he hissed, and buttoned up his trousers. “Strutting about in your underpants, as if you knew. Typical Gryffindor tomfoolery. Go. Leave an old man be.”

The cauldron trembled in his unsteady grip, so he took it to the kitchen before he fumbled it. For his part, Potter remained where he was.

* * *

The rest of the day passed in painful muteness. Severus read the book he’d found, outlining various hunting techniques. It was a dull read. Potter puttered about, aimless, fidgeting, and generally irking him. He had, at least, dressed properly now.

It grew dark very early, so he lit candles. Potter was still sitting, staring at the fire, when Severus finally piddled to bed. He stared at the back of his eyelids and was not aware of when he slept.

When he awoke, the room was cold. Potter was not curled next to the fireplace. As Severus poked at the embers, he realised that Potter was not in the cabin.

Nor in the yard.

Nor did he return, damn him.

Crippled by his broken wand, Severus remained at the cabin until well after the storm passed. Without a radio or television, he was utterly cut off. And perhaps that was for the best.

He finished the book, dreary though it was. There was no single afternoon where Potter stumbled through the door, flushed and shivering, to tumble back into his life. And he quite preferred that. He had expected nothing else, had he, so he heated soup and read the book again.

Finally, it stopped snowing. On the third clear day, Severus looked at the sky, nodded, and decided to leave the cabin.

* * *

The first sign of a return to civilisation was a general store, and Severus marched towards it. In the hours of walking, snow had sunk into his bones, and he was unpleasantly reminded of Potter’s dismal warming charms.

“ _Bienvenu_ ,” a gruff voice called from the register. “Look a bit rough around the edges, friend.”

Severus, with his hair plastered to his flushed face, sneered. It didn’t have the desired effect. “I would appreciate using your phone,” he growled, his voice weathered from the cold.

The man picked up a receiver. “Phone home? Or a taxi?”

“Taxi.”

While he waited, a plastic foam cup of coffee was placed at his elbow. Severus steadfastly ignored it.

“Lucky you didn’t freeze,” the man said. “Though if you keep frowning, son, I’ve got some news.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

Shrugging, the man returned to the register and fiddled with the dials of his radio.

* * *

_Marla Otrovka, who made recent news pending a murder investigation, has evaded Quebec police. Unconfirmed sources report that she has been spotted in Antilles, located in the Caribbean._

* * *

At Severus’ request, the taxi stopped by the curiosity shop. Inside, Brinley was dusting a bookcase.

“Severus,” he greeted him. He took in the wild hair, wind-beaten face, and scowl, saying nothing.

“Brinley,” Severus acknowledged. He tried to find in himself some level of decorum. “I was caught in the snowstorm…”

“Yes, so I heard.” With a light hand, Brinley waived the matter. “Last week a young man came by, looking for you.”

Potter. Severus bared his teeth.

Brinley went on. “He stopped by again and explained you might be held up by the storm. No problem, the shop has run itself. I’ll expect you on Monday.”

Bowing his head, Severus muttered his thanks and returned to the taxi.

When his house finally came into view, Severus sighed in relief. “Wait here, I’ll get my checkbook,” he told the driver.

“It’ll be thirty!”

Severus dragged himself up the steps and dug for his keys. He sifted through a few pieces of hay and a hotel matchbox. Past his wand…

Severus’ throat closed as he realised there was only one wand piece in his pocket. Had he dropped the other piece? Merlin, he would never find it.

Severus plundered his pockets, but it was not there. He did, less materially, find his keys.

After the taxi was paid, driving off the lane with red taillights, Severus ripped off his coat and turned out every pocket. He removed his wandpiece and everything else. Potion vials, more hay, a hotel mint, a sprig of dogwood… There was no second half of his wand.

“Knock knock,” a voice said. Someone pushed open the half-closed front door.

“Not now, Carole,” he stressed.

An awkward pause. “I’m not Carole,” Potter said, and Severus turned in time to catch his shy smile. Carefully, the boy crossed the threshold and warily closed the front door. “What, did you miss me?”

Severus did not hesitate. “No.”

“Right, of course not,” agreed Potter, and laughed. He approached Severus as a mouse might approach a cat’s den. “I missed you, though.”

The kiss was soft, passing, Severus’ cold lips moving against something warm and pleasant. A hand touched his jaw, his neck, coaxing him closer.

Then it stopped, and Harry sank into an armchair.

Severus blanked on a clever reply. “Marla Otrovka is a serial killer,” he ended up saying, and pursed his lips.

From the chair, Potter shrugged. “You never kept the most credible company, if you don’t mind my saying,” he countered, and lazily waved his wand at the fireplace. Severus started to argue, then thought better of it. He would tell him later.

“So…” A polite cough, and Potter picked at the armrest. “Why didn’t you Apparate here?” he wondered.

With an annoyed look Severus turned back to the task of outturning his pockets, thinking about the truth. It wasn’t so dangerous to admit, now.

“My wand,” he started to say, then his voice died. Severus had willed himself to forget about the splintered wood, dead in his inner coat pocket. It had sat there, disregarded, since Marla Otrovka had… Never mind, he would just have to buy another.

“You aren’t as observant as you think,” Potter teased, still lounging in his armchair.

Severus stared at him, flummoxed, then slowly inspected his wand. It was… whole, not even a jagged line to betray where the pieces had been joined. In all this time he hadn’t noticed. Severus gently squeezed it.

At the unspoken question, Harry added, “Master of the Elder wand, all that shite. Bet your wife doesn’t have one of those.”

“Never married,” Severus corrected without thinking.

A slow smile spread across Harry’s face. “Oh? Sounds like a missed opportunity.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment here or at [LiveJournal](https://snape-potter.livejournal.com/3892935.html), [Insanejournal](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/snape_potter/1822043.html), or [Dreamwidth](https://snape-potter.dreamwidth.org/1150103.html).


End file.
